


I'm Not Holding Your Hand

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Horror, M/M, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I've come to the conclusion that: we're either dreaming; we've been drugged; or I've finally died and this is hell. If that is indeed the case, I'm sorry for dragging you down here with me, but I want to thank you for the company.” </p>
<p>In which deciding to stop off at a hotel was a really stupid idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Holding Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillaChinchilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillaChinchilla/gifts).



> This is a small fic that I’ve written for MillaChinchilla, who very kindly drew me a picture and I wanted to give her something back for it. She requested horror, and to be quite honest I’m a wimp and tend to avoid the horror genre in any way possible. So please bear with me if it’s not particularly scary. Anyway, this is for MillaChinchilla. Hope you enjoy!

John hated buses more than any other form of transport. They were nosy, dirty, and always had a horrible smell lingering inside. What did manage to make him smile while riding them though was the knowledge that no matter how much he disliked them; Sherlock hated them more.

Originally, the case had been a Godsend. Sherlock hadn't had a case in little over three weeks and as a result everyone who came into contact with them experienced the wrath of bored-Sherlock, in that Sherlock decided to take out his overwhelming boredom by tormenting as many people as possible. The final straw had eventually come when Greg had called John and asked him to pick up Sherlock, as he'd been harassing interns.

A very grumpy Sherlock and an even grumpier John had returned to Baker Street, both fuming at the other, to find a message on Sherlock's blog, informing them of a series of suspicious murders taking place in a small village somewhere in the depths of the English countryside.

John replied quickly, found a small inn for them to stay, and hired a car for Sherlock. They picked up a few hours later before started their North-Westwards journey towards the Midlands, all the time with John beaming that Sherlock's boredom would soon be over.

The excited bliss that always came with a new case was soon extinguished, however.

The murders themselves came down to nothing more than the local GP being an idiot. The majority of the people who had died were elderly folk who had gotten ill, but the doctor hadn't given them the right medication to combat the virus. John had yelled at the man until his throat was hoarse and Sherlock had bought him a drink from the local pub to calm him down. Normally, John wouldn't have gotten so irate at a simple mistake, but the man had single-handedly managed to kill twelve people; kept attempting to belittle him; and refused to listen to Sherlock on the grounds that “He was weird”. So, John felt that his temper was fully justified.

Now however, they were trundling along a narrow country lane, Sherlock sitting staring out of the window, a vast expanse of fields and nothingness being his view. John was sitting next to him with the isle as his second companion; tapping his feet and frowning as a new smell met his nostrils. He gazed angrily at the cluster of hooded youths sitting at the back of the bus, and Sherlock, sensing he was tense, rested his hand on John's knee.

"Relax. We'll be back in London soon." Sherlock muttered. John sighed and rested his against Sherlock's shoulder.

They'd travelled down to the village of Pilkington from London via the hired car, but to avoid anyone tracking them down (when they'd originally suspected the deaths being the result of a murderer), they'd parked a few miles away and caught the local bus into the village. They had phoned and cancelled their room for the night (or rather Sherlock had, while John downed his pint, still seething at the incompetent doctor), as they wanted to get as far away as possible from Pilkington and the archaic residents as quickly as possible.

A short while later they hopped off the bus and retrieved their things from the inn. The sky had turned a musky brown as the blackness converged with orange on the horizon, and an owl could be heard hooting in the distance. It was a relatively pleasant evening; though John had loathed everything about the case and as a result everything that had anything to do with it. Hence their eagerness to leave.

They put their suitcases in the car boot and quickly pulled out of the car park. They had planned to drive straight through to London, but Sherlock started yawning.

"Are you tired?" John asked, turning down the drivel that was currently playing through the radio (it had been slowly fading into static, anyway). Sherlock shook his head, all while stifling another yawn.

"You shouldn't be driving if you're tired." John pointed out.

"I'm fine, John, really." Sherlock said firmly, before changing gear and increasing the acceleration. John just slouched into the seat and allowed Sherlock to continue driving.

Their view of the large expanses of once green fields quickly turned to a dull countryside scene, obscured by an impenetrable sea of darkness and fog. Sherlock whizzed down the narrow lanes with the main beam on, but still only being able to see a few metres ahead. John was growing anxious.

"Sherlock, it's dangerous to be driving like this. Slow down." He said. Sherlock shook his head.

"I want to get back to Baker Street and into my own bed." John could reason with that. Except his eyes had now fallen on the only sign of life for what seemed like several hours, even though they'd only been driving for forty minutes.

"There's a hotel. Why don't we just stay there? You're knackered." John pointed at the structure in the distance. Sherlock glanced away from the road, looked at it, shrugged, and turned off the lane and down another one into the direction of the hotel.

Pebbles crackled underneath the tires as the grey car rolled onto the driveway and into a parking space. They clambered out, stretching and grumbling, keen to be using their legs.

"Leave the stuff in the car. We'll get it when we get a room." Sherlock yawned, shoving a hand in his mouth and waving down John with the other.

The hotel itself looked alright, John supposed. There were several large bay windows pointing in the direction of the now almost completely set sun. John counted four floors, and as he reached the top he was greeted by comedic looking gargoyles perched casually along the guttering. Sherlock grunted something about them but John didn't quite hear, although he suspected it had something to do with Mycroft. They were both completely exhausted.

They entered the hotel through a heavy oak front door, it was at least five inches thick, and Sherlock had had to push against it with his shoulder in order for it to budge. Once inside however, they found a dimly lit foyer, with black and white chequered flooring. As if to match the door there was also a magnificently carved oaken desk, depicting beautiful patterns along the bottom. The whole room was illuminated by a single oil gas lamp perched on the desk.

"Sherlock," John was surprised to find his voice at a whisper, "I don't think we should be here."  
Sherlock reached across the desk and pressed a bell. The high pitched shrill reverberated around the empty foyer, but seemed to get lost in the dark voids that were the shadows.

"I didn't see a 'No Entry' sign, did you?" Sherlock pointed out, shoving his hands into his pockets, but not before turning his coat collar up. John sighed as he noticed the green-blue orbs that acted as Sherlock's eyes start twinkling. Sherlock's impenetrable curiosity had been spiked by something.

"Five minutes. Five minutes and then we're leaving." John said firmly. Sherlock grinned and spun around, racing off up a hitherto unseen wooden staircase, and apparently forgetting about his undisclosed tiredness. Resigned to the fact that Sherlock was undoubtedly going to get himself into some form of trouble, John leapt after him.

John's skin started crawling the moment he placed his foot on the landing. The walls were lined with ominous paintings, the occupants glaring at the weary doctor as he passed. John groaned as the thick, copper scent engulfed his nostrils. No wonder Sherlock was so interested in this place. The guy was like a hound when it came to sensing death and destruction.

He carefully pushed a door open (for inside the room he could hear the excited scufflings of Sherlock), and was met by the sight of the detective darting around a puddle of blood on the floor.

"What do you see, John?" Sherlock quizzed. John ran a hand through his hair, squinting slightly as he looked at the deep red puddle.

"Blood." He said simply. He expected something, like an eye-roll, for instance, but nothing came from Sherlock.

"Exactly. There's a lot of it, almost too much, and it's still fresh. It's just blood." Sherlock crinkled his nose as he bent down to observe it further. Just then, a ripple spread across the puddle all the way to the congealing edged. Both Sherlock and John looked up to see a dark red patch on the ceiling, with blood droplets beginning to form.

“Never go into a crime scene without looking at the ceiling.” Sherlock said, more to himself than to John. Before John could say anything in reply however, Sherlock had raced from the room and was climbing more stairs. By the time John had left the room himself, Sherlock had vanished from the corridor completely.

John decided to leave him to it, instead he opted for trying to locate a member of staff- as so far he'd seen none.

Slowly, he descended the stairs back down into the foyer. What was once a flickering lamp had now gone out, so John pulled out his phone from his pocket and used the torch on that to see what he was doing.

He scoured the tiled floor first, careful of where he put his foot, but as he reached the opposite end of the room he nearly dropped his phone. The door was gone.

It wasn't just gone. It was completely missing. It was like it hadn't existed at all. Where it had once been stood the wall continuing from one corner of the room to the next. John hit where the door had been, scowling as he proceeded to tap it, listening intently and trying to work out whether it was hollow and just a simple plasterboard job. But after the tenth tap, he came to the conclusion that it was simply a solid brick wall. John swore loudly, turning around just in time to see a black shadow whisk past him out of the corner of his eye. He didn't like this place. Not one bit.

John clenched his teeth, holding his phone aloft and standing with his a back to the definitely-not-hollow wall with baited breath. The silence was pressing down on him, and felt felt constricted in the dark confides of the room. His hand was hanging limply at his side, but through his days in the Army he'd developed sufficiently in not trembling, no matter how much he didn't like the situation. This was a different kind of not liking the situation though. He'd class his meetings with Mycroft as horrible situations; this was on a new level.

He almost yelled as an ice cold hand wrapped around his own, and he pulled it away quickly, lowering his phone and adopting a fighting stance. Although the entirety of the room was more or less visible owing of his phone, John couldn't see who had decided to touch his hand. He shivered, squinting into the darkest corners of the room and with half a mind to hide behind the desk. He wanted Sherlock to come and take him away from the Godforsaken darkness. The room itself however remained dastardly quiet.

The deafening silence that had been lingering throughout the old hotel like the smell of tobacco on a smokers' clothes was suddenly blown away as John heard his name being shouted.

"John!" John didn't have time to react to the source of the noise, as thunderous footsteps could be heard pelting down the same stairs that John had descended moments ago. He almost fell over as Sherlock threw himself at him, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck. John was certain that Sherlock had wanted to jump onto him, but had decided mid-jump that he best not. Although that wasn't John's main concern, for through the thick Belstaff coat Sherlock was visibly trembling.

"Sherlock?" John asked, Sherlock's ear was pressed against his own as he awkwardly hugged him. "Sherlock, you're starting to strangle me."

At that comment, Sherlock withdrew. Even with the dim light cast by John's phone it was plain to see that Sherlock was white as a sheet.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John asked, slightly urgently as Sherlock's large hands rested on his shoulders.

"We need to leave." Sherlock stated, and although he was shaking, his voice didn't waver. John nodded. He went to go to the door, but then he realised his mistake.

"The doors gone." He grumbled to himself, throwing the light of his phone back on to Sherlock, whose pupils contracted at the new found light.

"That's impossible." Sherlock said, apparently forgetting whatever had made him come running after John and pushing him aside to examine the vanishing door. "Break the window. We need to get out."

Sherlock strode towards the closest window to them, and punched it. The glass shattered, and John was thankful that it was only a single pane and therefore more easily broken. Except now Sherlock's hand was bleeding.

"You're an idiot." John sighed, reaching forward to get a better look at Sherlock's hand, but Sherlock was distracted by something else. As he grew closer to the window, John saw what.

Their car was on fire. The orange flames were licking the insides, desperate to escape the automobile sarcophagus that was the car. But that wasn't the most troubling sight that greeted them, for the car itself was now roughly twenty four feet below them.

"Down stairs." Sherlock ordered suddenly, and John found himself being hurried down a staircase that he hadn't known existed until that moment. This place was seriously creeping him out, but he couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had seen to make him panic.

From his position half way down the stairwell, John could hear Sherlock muttering to himself, but something else made his ears prick up. They weren't alone in the hotel. Most definitely not alone. He'd worked out that much before though, when whoever was with them decided to hold his hand. John shuddered and cupped his shivering hand with the warmer one, nursing it and making sure that it couldn't be held again.

Allowing Sherlock to continue pacing up and down the corridor, massaging his hand as he did so, John quietly made his way to the source of the noise. The corridor they were currently standing in was much the same as the one they'd been in previously, except that the paintings were different. Nevertheless, they still made John's skin crawl.

Once he'd reached the door, steeling himself slightly at the knowledge that he didn't know what he would find behind it. The black painted, peeling door had a couple of cracks in it, and splinters that stuck out like bristles on a nail brush. He thought that he probably ought to have told Sherlock where he'd gone, but the curiosity that had been incubating inside of him only intensified at the sound of the scuffling. He just hoped that whoever was creating the scuffling would be able to give him answers.

He held his breath as he pushed the door open, and the sight that greeted him almost made him scream.

Sherlock was laying on the floor, clawing at the ground. The black mop that usually adorned his head was tinged red owing to the blood that clung to it. His usually sparkling eyes were now bloodshot, as though he'd been staring at the sun for too long, and John's heart sank as the overpowering stench of some unholy drug engulfed his senses.

He immediately crouched down next to the now writhing Sherlock, army-doctor instincts kicking in while the tired and extremely worried boyfriend part of him tried come to terms with the now foaming bloke laying in front of him. 

“Sherlock, stay with me.” John felt repulsed as his hands skated across the sticky liquid of Sherlock's blood in order to find a pulse. Once he had located it on his neck, John found that it was horribly erratic. 

He carefully rolled Sherlock onto his back, and Sherlock started coughing, his eyes becoming hazy and unseeing. John started shouting for Sherlock to stay awake. Tears rolled gracefully down his haggard face as he pounded the floor, always remembering to keep one hand firmly around Sherlock's wrist, monitoring his now dying pulse. 

He didn't hear the door open, the shouting, or even feel himself begin hoisted into the air- torn away from the body. All he knew was that his legs were wrapped around a pair of long ones, which were carrying him away from the body of the man he loved. His nose was buried into the carrier's neck, and he didn't realise how tightly he'd been clinging to the man.

“Shh... John. Calm down. It's alright. I'm not dead.” 

John snorted. Like he hadn't heard that one before.

Eventually, they came to a standstill and he felt himself being deposited on a chair. There was someone darting around the room, but John didn't care. Because why should he care? He'd lost Sherlock, again.

“Is this how you dealt with it the first time? Because you're being quite melodramatic.” The man said, and John grinned, rubbing his eyes on the palms of his hands.

“Fuck off, Sherlock.” John said, chuckling slightly. Then his eyes widened. “Wait. What?”

He looked up to find Sherlock grinning sadly at him. John quickly registered that Sherlock was not, in actual fact, dead. When the guy actually popped it John wouldn't believe it at all. 

“I've come to the conclusion that: we're either dreaming; we've been drugged; or I've finally died and this is hell. If that is indeed the case, I'm sorry for dragging you down here with me, but I want to thank you for the company. However, if you're going to continue you descent further down into hell with me I must ask a couple of things from you. For instance, don't go into that room under any circumstance. This whole landing is parallel to the one above, and they're both completely identical. Except for the portraits, it seems. What you just saw was much the same as what I had seen, except I wasn't the one who was dying.” Sherlock cleared his throat, and John understood. Sherlock was pacing backwards and forwards, with his hands in the typical steeple position that John had become so accustomed to seeing. 

“Anyway,” Sherlock started again, recomposing himself, “I have a feeling that in each one of the rooms there is a particular nightmare, and going by what we've both been through in our lifetimes I suggest we avoid the rooms as much as possible.” John nodded, because he couldn't agree more. “We just need to keep trying to make our way out of here.” Sherlock concluded finally as John straightened up. 

“Neither one of us has thought to check our phones for signal.” John remembered, pulling out his phone to find that he hadn't any signal. 

“I already did, and got nothing. We'll have to find a working phone from somewhere and call someone to pick us up, because I'm fairly certain the car won't be of much use.” Sherlock stopped, and looked at John. His whole face contorted. 

“What?” John asked, hurriedly standing up. “What is it, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock shook his head slightly, eyes fixated on the small gap between the wall and the chair where John had been sat. 

“There was someone standing behind you...” Sherlock trailed off, with John coming to his side to join him in staring at the wall. Although he couldn't see anything.

“Argh!” Sherlock yelped and jumped backwards, causing John to do the same thing in shock. “What the hell, John? Your hand is freezing!” Sherlock scolded disgustedly.

“I didn't touch your hand.” John argued. 

“Yes you did! I know your hand. You're standing on my right side, and you tried to hold my right hand. It's not safe to be that cold, John. Bloody hell...” Sherlock was scowling, though John suspected it was more to do with the fact that he was embarrassed about panicking, rather than the notion that a cold hand had touched him.

“Was it cold? Like absolutely freezing?” John queried, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock nodded. “Right.” John took a brisk step towards Sherlock and grabbed his cold hand with his own two. He sandwiched Sherlock's hand between his own. “They're warm, aren't they?” Sherlock nodded again. “I didn't try to hold your hand.”

“Then who...?”

A door further along the corridor swung open, creaking on its hinges. Sherlock made to take a step towards it, but John grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“No going in the rooms, remember?” Sherlock stalled at John's words, but reached towards John's definitely warm hand and slipped it into his own.

“We'll go in together. You're just as interested in this as me.” John sighed, because it was true, and the pair of them ambled towards the newly opened door. Although they were walking slowly, they were both itching within their own skin. There was that excitement again. The excitement that always came with a case. Fear was bubbling inside of them, but it was overpowered greatly by the fierceness that they both felt in protection for one another.

Together, they squeezed through the door frame, setting their eyes on the man in the corner.

“Yeah okay. This is enough.” John said the moment they were inside the room. “Sherlock, now.” He was ordering, tugging on Sherlock's arm, but Sherlock was rooted to the spot. “It's not real. We said we weren't going into the rooms for a reason. This was the reason. We need to go.” Sherlock wasn't listening though.

“Come on then.” He started “We all know how much you like to explain yourself. Start talking. Now.” John was surprised to hear Sherlock's voice, being firm, strong, commanding- the complete opposite of what he'd been expecting. 

“... Sherlock.” John muttered. 

“It's fine.” Sherlock assured him lowly. “He's dead. He's not real. But oh how he loves to chat.” He turned back to the man. “Talk. Now.”

Sherlock strode forwards, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him round, except he didn't find a face greeting his own. 

He was hollow, or rather, it was hollow. A hollow blackness, supported by nothing but thin air. As the body fell to the floor, crumpling into a suit, a piercing scream ripped through the air. Sherlock wheeled around, but John had already taken off.

“John!”

Sherlock quickly scrambled across the room, casting one last glance at the bundle of clothes, before speeding off after John, desperately following the sound of his footsteps. They were fading away further down the building. 

“John! Wait!” Sherlock yelled as he ran, hopping down two stairs at a time. “We're going further down into the building! We'll never get out!” 

Then it him. 

“John! You need to stop running!” The footsteps stopped, and started retreating back towards Sherlock.

A very flustered John appeared at the bottom of the stairwell, scowling at the detective. 

“I don't like this place.” John growled, striding past him and dropping onto the floor. “Everything, absolutely everything about this has been rubbish. The case, that bloody doctor, and now this place. I'm sick to death of it. Will we ever just have a normal...” He faltered, not knowing what word to use.

“Life?” Sherlock put in, grinning slightly.

“That's the one.” John returned the grin, but then his face faltered. “Sherlock... How many times am I going to see you dead in my lifetime? Because I've had just about enough of it now.” Sherlock clenched his jaw.

“Hopefully never, but that's highly improbable and this is depressing me now. Let's talk about something else, like how I think I know how we can get out. How many floors did you manage to go down before you came back up?” John cocked his eyebrow.

“Three? Maybe?” 

“Right. So the further we go down the more floors are created. Going by the puddle of blood, and your body being above it, I'll retract my previous idea of each corridor mirroring the other. It's every two corridors, descending in the order of body, blood, body, blood.”

“Okay... I don't see how that helps.” Sherlock groaned, and John could tell that he was annoying him with his stupidity, but Sherlock wasn't exactly being helpful. It didn't help that he had an atrocious habit of talking too quickly.

“We came on the ground floor, and there were four floors when we started, am I right?” John nodded to confirm it, remembering counting as he surveyed the gargoyles. “So, when we went up the stairs two new floors were created underneath it, every time we went down, two more floors appeared so that we'd never be able to leave. My hypothesis is that for every floor we pass downwards, two more appear. Therefore, as we ascend the stairs, two floors will disappear from below.” John nodded. “If we went right to the top of the building, the door in the actual foyer should reappear, as it will be at the bottom.” 

John was frowning.

“How will we be able to get out though? If we're four floors away from the exit?” Sherlock's excited demeanour dropped. 

“That's for me to know and for you to find out.” Sherlock quipped. “I'm going to the top of the building, go back to the old foyer. When the door reappears, get out.” And with that he took off up the stairs, leaving John to fumble his way towards the original foyer. It hadn't occurred to him that he'd be leaving Sherlock alone in the building.

As he worked his way into the foyer, the door had reappeared and John sighed in relief, practically running towards it. Never had he been so pleased to see a door before. He started to push it open, and the cool night air rushed across his face. He gulped it in, relinquishing at finally being free of the hell hotel. He was just about to step outside, when the bell on the desk dinged.

John spun around, staring wide eyed at the gold plated bell which was still vibrating as the shrill screech slowly died. 

“Who's there?” John called. He blamed the breeze wafting in through the open door for the chill that was currently running along his spine. “Come out. I'm not going to hurt you.”

It was a feeble attempt, but it was the best John could think of doing in his situation. From what he'd managed to work out, what ever this was, it focused on one person at a time. He wasn't one hundred percent certain of what Sherlock had witnessed when he came pelting down the stairs to him, but from what he'd said it wasn't dissimilar to what he had witnessed. While that was happening, John had experienced the nasty hand holding, and Sherlock had not. Meaning that if it was focused on him, it wouldn't be with Sherlock. 

“John.” That was Sherlock. That was Sherlock talking. But Sherlock was upstairs. John wasn't going to fall for that one again.

“Alright. Enough with the mind games.” John frowned at the looming darkness, trying to find the culprit of the mind games.

“Turn around a walk back the way you came.” John's heart stopped. 

“No. This isn't going to work.” John said calmly. He didn't know what he was trying to do, whether he was trying to reason or just convince himself it wasn't happening again, but he was surprised by his own resoluteness not to buckle.

“Just do as I ask. Please.” Half of John wanted to yell at Sherlock, even though he knew that it wasn't actually him talking. He wanted to scale St Bart's building and make sure that Sherlock didn't jump. Not again. “Stop there.” 

John found himself glued to the floor, not that he was moving anyway.

“Okay, look up I'm on the rooftop.” 

“No. Stop. I don't know what you want to achieve by this. But this isn't fair. This isn't right. Making people relive their worst nightmares? That's not on.” John was scolding the hotel, and he felt stupid for doing so.

“I'm not the one making people relive their old nightmares.” The voice was quiet, timid. John squirmed under his skin as he realised the voice belonged to a child. A cold finger slowly traced the crease lines of his hand, but he didn't pull away, not wanting to give it the satisfaction. “You're the one who let him go to the roof...”

“No...” John felt light-headed, pulling his hand away. "No!” 

That's when he really started running. Properly running, and not just for trying to locate the screaming. He took two steps at a time, bolting his way through the various floors. The entity had left him now, and John grew even more anxious at the trepidation that it was now with Sherlock. 

Eventually he reached the fourth and final floor, apprehensive about what he'd find. His eyes strayed towards the fire escape leading on to the roof. It was open.

"No..." John breathed, skipping through the fire escape to find an extremely bad tempered  Sherlock sitting on the ledge, his feet dangling over the edge.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock almost jumped off the building out of shock. 

"John? You're supposed to be down there!" Sherlock pointed exasperatedly at the ground below. "I was waiting for you to come out."

"No you weren't. You were going to jump off this damn building." John seethed, fists curling into balls as he glowered at the now blinking Sherlock.

"Urm... No. You really think I'd want to go through that again? No thank you." Sherlock retorted jokingly, but John didn't see the funny side to it.

"You were going to jump again. You were going to kill yourself, again." John spat. Where the anger was coming from, he wasn't quite sure. But something was giving it fuel and it was burning. Sherlock meanwhile looked quite frankly appalled at what John was suggesting.

"I most definitely was not going to jump." He said, slightly hurt at the accusation.

"Why were you hanging your feet over the roof then?!" John yelled, gesturing at the ledge.

"I was waiting to see you come out of the building!" Sherlock yelled back. "Do you think I'd jump again? Really? Right now all I want is a nice of cup tea. I have absolutely no ambitions to throw myself off a building again. It wasn't good for me either, John. Think about what you're saying!" 

"I don't want to lose you again." John replied meekly, voice cracking slightly. Sherlock closed the gap between them and pulled John into a teddy bear hug.

"And you're not going to. But first you need to bugger off out of this building." Sherlock said, lifting his head up and resting his chin on John's hair. 

"Right." John pulled himself away, feeling distinctly stupid for believing that Sherlock would actually have the mordacity to even consider jumping. "Right." He turned to leave back through the fire escape, but Sherlock called him.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John turned back to face him.

"I have..." Sherlock's face was solemn, and he was chewing on his lip. John could feel his pulse ebbing through his veins. "... Two bars!" Sherlock grinned as he showed John his phone.

"You're an absolute wanker for doing stuff like that, you know." John scowled, but Sherlock was grinning as he tapped away. John himself could feel his own phone buzzing in his pocket as texts came through. Sherlock brought his phone to his ear and spoke into it.

"Hello Brother. Oh yes, I'm absolutely dandy. Just seem to have strayed into a particularly nasty hotel. Do you mind sending over a helicopter to pick us up? No I can't drive. The car is a right-off." Sherlock turned to John and rolled his eyes at his conversation with Mycroft. "No! I didn't do anything to the car this time! Just pick us up. And then bomb this God awful place. Thank you."


End file.
